I wake up beautiful.
That is the first thought that crosses my mind, and it hits me with such startling clarity that I sit upright in bed before I even fully process where I am.
My hair spills over my shoulders in pale, silvery-blonde waves. My hands—slender, elegant, not mine—rest against fabric far finer than anything I ever owned in my past life. When I swing my legs over the side of the bed and catch my reflection in the mirror across the room, my breath catches.
Elaine the Wandering Witch stares back at me.
Not a look-alike. Not inspired by. Elaine. The same sharp, intelligent eyes. The same refined features that always carried an air of mystery and danger. My favourite character—no, my ideal—now unmistakably me.
"Well," I murmur to myself, voice smooth and unfamiliar, "this is new."
It doesn't take long for the shock to fade. Confusion, yes. Awe, definitely. But panic? No. I've lived one life already. Waking up in another doesn't break me—it sharpens me.
The memories settle quickly. Two lives, braided together. My past self, with all her knowledge and obsessions… and Elaine's mind, brilliant and disciplined, layered seamlessly beneath my own.
That's when it clicks.
The town.
The architecture is subtle, almost mundane, but the wrongness of it hums beneath the surface. The way shadows linger too long. The way symbols repeat themselves in places no one questions. I don't need days to figure it out.
"I'm in the Owl House universe," I whisper.
The realisation sends a thrill through my spine.
Of all the worlds I could have awakened in—this one is perfect. Dangerous, yes. Chaotic. But full of magic, and more importantly, full of loopholes.
I'm eighteen years old. Orphaned. Wealthy. My parents—dead long enough that their absence feels factual rather than painful—left me a comfortable inheritance. Enough money that survival isn't a concern, only direction.
And I already know mine.
I want to become a witch.
Not someday. Not theoretically. Properly. The kind of witch who doesn't rely on luck or stolen scraps of power. The kind who prepares.
Getting to the Boiling Isles wouldn't normally be the hard part. I know exactly where the portal door will be.
The problem is when.
It's 1950.
Eda Clawthorne is probably still a kid—or not even born yet. The portal door definitely doesn't exist in her possession. That means rushing in blind would be idiotic, no matter how tempting the idea of magic is.
I exhale slowly and smile.
That's fine.
Because I know something else.
Titan blood.
My gaze drifts toward the window, toward the distant edge of town where the old graveyard rests. Forgotten. Ignored. Built over something far older than the people who visit it.
Based on the year… based on the lore… I'm almost certain there's a trace there. Not much. Not enough to open stable portals.
But enough to experiment.
Enough to prepare.
Enough to make myself ready.
I glance back at my reflection, tilting my head slightly. I still look young—far younger than eighteen—but I suppose this body simply has excellent genetics.
"Lucky me," I joke softly.
Elaine was already intelligent. Exceptionally so. Add my own mind—years of theory, analysis, and obsessive worldbuilding—and the result is… dangerous.
Tomorrow, I leave for university.
Not the best one. Not prestigious. But it has libraries, research access, and professors who don't ask too many questions if you're quiet, wealthy, and brilliant.
A garden university, really. Modest. Overlooked.
Perfect.
Because while everyone else studies for degrees, I'll be studying magic that shouldn't exist yet.
The Boiling Isles can wait.
I've got decades to prepare.
And when I finally step through that door?
I won't be a lost human begging to be taught.
I'll be a witch who planned her rebirth from the very beginning.